


sleep through the static

by iridescent



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Exhaustion, Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Overworking, Pre-Slash, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-15 11:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15412296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescent/pseuds/iridescent
Summary: Arthur appears to have fallen asleep face-first into his desk, forehead pressed into a pile of papers, arms splayed haphazardly.This is the maybe-secret thing about Arthur: in sleep – true sleep – he is uncoordinated and ungainly, all over the place, limbs akimbo and clothing dishevelled and seemingly dead to the world.





	sleep through the static

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there. It's been a (very long) while. I've been unexpectedly nostalgic for this fandom lately, and have been picking at some old stories. Title is from the song of the same name by Jack Johnson. 
> 
> Originally written for [this prompt](https://inception-kink.livejournal.com/19632.html?thread=47201456#t47201456) at the kink meme.

Eames opens his eyes to find Arthur standing by his elbow, staring down at him, brows drawn together.

Gripping a mug in one white-knuckled hand, he has that disoriented demeanour of the particularly sleep-deprived. He’s actually looking through Eames rather than at him, gaze fixed and intense, focused on some inward preoccupation. Nevertheless, it’s unsettling. Distracting. 

“Bloody hell, Arthur,” he says, mildly, sliding the cannula out of his hand and replacing it with a square of gauze. “By all means, come closer. Personal space means nothing to me.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Arthur replies reflexively, readily enough, equally mild. It’s funny; sheer exhaustion renders them both quiescent and compliant, apparently. He visibly relaxes, tension leaching from his frame, and takes a deliberate step backward. “More coffee?”

“Please,” Eames says gratefully, handing over the mug that has begun to permanently reside atop his cluttered desk. Their fingers touch, briefly. Arthur blinks, as if finally roused from a deep stupor. 

Settling back into the chair, he watches Arthur gingerly manoeuvre over boxes and between stacked rolls of blueprints to the make-shift kitchenette. He closes his aching eyes, listening to the bubbling of the boiling kettle and the low whine of the squat mini fridge. 

The rest of the team have decided to call it a day, frustrated by several unforeseen complications and fed up of one another’s faces – an inevitable side-effect of long drawn out cons. 

Arthur and Eames are the only ones left, silently and somewhat juvenilely trying to outlast each other.

***

It’s two in the morning when Eames re-surfaces from his third test forge of the mark’s sister, musical countdown resounding in his ears.

The rapid and unwieldy transition between dream and reality sits oddly in his bones for a moment or two. He catalogues the differences clinically, accustomed to the dissonance by now. The nape of his neck feels strangely bare without her heavy curtain of hair. His nails are unmanicured and unvarnished, his entire frame is broader and bulkier. 

He shakes her off gently, protectively, storing her away for a later date. She’s not quite ready yet; there are still a few characteristics to tweak and mannerisms to mimic but, overall, he is rather satisfied with her steady progression. 

It is then that he notices that Arthur appears to have fallen asleep face-first into his desk, forehead pressed into a pile of papers, arms splayed haphazardly. 

This is the maybe-secret thing about Arthur: in sleep – _true_ sleep – he is uncoordinated and ungainly, all over the place, limbs akimbo and clothing dishevelled and seemingly dead to the world.

“Arthur.” He prods him between the shoulder blades, rougher than strictly necessary. 

Arthur stirs, grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “go away." The second round of prodding elicits a disgruntled and somewhat petulant, “fuck, all right, I'm up, I'm up.” 

He doesn’t budge. 

“Arthur,” Eames repeats, on the verge of exasperated laughter, now shaking him hard by the shoulder. Arthur’s eyes suddenly snap open, bloodshot yet frighteningly cognisant, and that will never stop being incredibly unnerving. “I'm heading back now.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur grouses, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his eyelids with the heels of his palms. His voice rasps on each syllable. 

Eames thinks of Kuwait – back in the days when paying jobs were scarce and clients who followed through on their end of the deal were scarcer, when rooming together was cost-effective and their sparse bank accounts were buffered by legitimate part-time work and hard-won but trifling research grants. He had rolled out of bed to take a leak only to find Arthur still awake, hunched over a thick sheaf of documents, features ghoulishly highlighted by amber lamp light. 

“Can’t sleep?” he had mumbled muzzily, after-images of an especially vicious nightmare still flickering behind his eyelids, in a vague attempt at initiating conversation. They hadn’t really known each other, at that point, had exchanged no more than a handful of words. 

Arthur had barely spared him a glance, eyes roving over pages and pages of print. 

“Nearly done,” he had muttered, dismissive, distracted.

Eames had shrugged. He’d gone off to piss and then crawled back into his gloriously warm bed, thinking nothing more of it. As the pattern repeated itself night after night, he had wondered whether Arthur had insomnia. It wasn’t uncommon in their line of work. 

After months of peripherally interacting with Arthur, of sporadically sharing jobs and rooms, he had finally realised the truth – that Arthur compromised sleep in the interests of getting shit done. 

In hindsight, taking into account Kuwait and the nature of this job, Eames should have known better. Perhaps he should have brusquely bundled Arthur off to his rented flat or motel room. 

Instead, because he’s really fucking tired himself and Arthur's shitty and possibly self-destructive sleeping habits aren’t technically any of his concern, he merely says, “Get some rest. I’ll see you in a few hours.” 

***

Three and a half hours of restless and unsatisfying sleep later, Eames stumbles from the cocoon of his blankets and bangs his bad shoulder against a corner wall whilst heading to the bathroom. The resultant flare of pain, abrupt and disconcerting, startles the last vestiges of sluggishness out of him. 

The tarnished pipes squeak in protest as he turns the knobs. He stands under the scorching spray of water, relishing the burn in his numb extremities. The place is middling at best, but at least there’s hot water. 

It’s the tail-end of a particularly biting autumn, tendrils of frost delicately unfurling over pavements and an insidious chill seeping into every inch of exposed skin. Eames shudders through the draughty corridors, dripping all over the threadbare carpet; he detests cold weather, is far more suited to the sweltering climes of the tropics. 

Over a paltry breakfast of tea and toast, he resolves to take the next flight out after the job is done. Maybe he’ll head to Kinshasa – brush up on his fading French, kip on Yusuf’s couch, splurge his pay-check on shady dream dens and underground gambling halls. 

His fingers itch for a poker chip, familiar and well-worn. 

***

It is Eames’ turn to stand by Arthur’s elbow, staring down at him, brows drawn together. 

Arthur is sprawled prone on the warehouse floor, face pillowed in his forearms, evidently asleep. He’s flanked by an army of folders and files and flyaway sheets of paper. An open laptop hums by his side, plugged in at a far wall and stretched to the very end of its power cord. 

He’s in his shirtsleeves, jacket rolled up and propped under his elbows. Interestingly, Arthur isn’t overly fastidious in reality. Though always well-dressed he remains susceptible to wrinkled shirts and wilting collars, curling cowlicks and crushed trousers.

In dreams, these mortal shortcomings are easily omitted. Arthur the point man is sharp and sleek, suits perfectly pressed and impeccably tailored. 

Arthur is quiet in sleep. He doesn’t snore or snuffle, roll over or rouse; the only giveaway is the infinitesimal rise and fall of his chest.

Sighing noisily, Eames shrugs out of his overcoat. The floor is made of rugged concrete and likely freezing. It looks fucking uncomfortable, too. He doesn’t know how Arthur has lasted several hours, but he’s disinclined to shake him awake again. 

Crouching down, he spreads the coat cautiously over narrow shoulders, tensing instinctively. Arthur has ridiculously heightened self-preservative reflexes. Today, they are apparently too dulled by fatigue. 

Unintentionally, his fingertips skim the slope of Arthur's back. He doesn't retract them, though he should. It seems too intimate, too intrusive, too incriminating should another member of the team walk in. Arthur shifts (Eames readies himself to duck or lunge or block) but settles again. 

The fabric of Arthur’s shirt is cool and creased, dampening any underlying body heat. Even his hair is rumpled, curling at the nape of his neck. Inexplicably, Eames wonders if the pale sliver of exposed skin there would be warm or chilled to touch. 

The thought is fleeting but incongruous all the same. Their long-standing acquaintance is largely centred around occasionally working for the same client. They tolerate each other during these times, infusing their interactions with amused derision and mild one-upmanship if team dynamics are decidedly dismal, and then meet up for a few amicable-if-awkward beers to celebrate a job well done before gratefully fucking off to opposite corners of the globe. 

No matter how chaotic their respective personal and professional lives become, their dealings with each other remain uncomplicated and staid, refreshingly predictable amidst the volatility of lives spent blurring the boundaries between truth and make-believe. 

***

Three quarters of an hour later, as Eames is taking a break between test runs, Arthur sits up with a start, coat sliding down his back. It’s a delightful sight – this drowsy Arthur with unruly hair and crumpled clothing, an Arthur who lacks the brisk efficiency and purposefulness of his more awake counterpart. 

“Sleep well?” he murmurs demurely, not bothering to suppress a smirk. 

“Fuck off,” Arthur grunts, words gravelly, rising to his feet and stretching his limbs out with a heartfelt groan. He litters curses and complaints with each step toward Eames. “Ow, fuck. I don't even remember falling asleep.”

“Did it seem like a good idea at the time, lying down on the floor?” 

Arthur’s mouth twitches reluctantly. “It really did. My back was in agony from sitting in that damn chair all day and it seemed perfectly logical to relocate to the floor.”

“While ignoring the quite comfortable couch in the corner entirely,” Eames can’t help but interject, reaching out to catch the balled-up coat lobbed rather rudely in the general direction of his face. 

“Thanks for the coat, asshole.” As always Arthur’s eyes, dark and unexpectedly expressive, belie the curtness of his tone. 

They are interrupted by the arrival of Hui, Chadwick trailing after her. Eames swivels in his chair to nod a greeting at them, intent on saying nothing more about last night – not in their presence, at least. He imagines ribbing Arthur about it, wedged in a corner of a crowded airport bar, savouring as he would with a fine wine the aggravated twist of his lips and the tell-tale flush to his ears. 

Out of the corner of his eye he notices that Arthur is looking at him. It’s a strange look, careful and restrained, inscrutable. Eames has caught that look before, once or twice. 

The coat in his lap is still warm. He runs a thumb along the heavy wool, thoughtfully.

***

Eames is slouching half-heartedly back to his desk, nursing a third mug of tea and feeling increasingly disagreeable as the day drags on, when he overhears snatches of a conversation taking place at Arthur’s workspace. More bored than inquisitive, he slows his steps to a near glacial pace. 

“Arthur, I need those reports,” Chadwick is saying tersely, palpable disapproval underscoring each word. 

“They'll be ready in an hour,” Arthur replies evenly, features impassive. “You handed them to me just this morning; what did you expect?”

At this juncture, Eames is out of earshot – he doesn’t hear Chadwick’s response. Judging by the sudden stiffness to Arthur’s posture, it hadn’t been particularly convivial or professional. 

***

“A word, Chadwick,” Eames says crisply, having deliberately prowled after him to the kitchenette area. It’s far away enough from the others that they won’t be heard. He continues, without waiting for an acknowledgement, “Give it a rest, yeah? Arthur’s working his arse off and we’re well on track as it is.”

Chadwick regards him shrewdly over the rim of his mug. “Well, isn't this a surprise. You, of all people, sticking up for someone else? Going soft in your old age, Eames?”

Eames laughs on cue, jovial and artificial, drumming his fingers against his thigh. What a wanker. Then again, most extractors are. Chadwick does adequate work but has an irritating propensity to assign impossible and unnecessary deadlines upon the rest of his team.

“It just seems like you’re running him hard for no real reason. The job is intensive, certainly, but our client isn’t in any hurry.”

“Come on, man, it's Arthur,” Chadwick says, lip curling into an unbecoming sneer. “He can take it.”

On the whole, Eames isn’t one to take sides. He simply doesn’t give a fuck, is all. Partnerships and alliances mean little to him. He looks out for himself, fulfils his obligations, collects his cut, and gets the hell out. 

In fact, he considers the ongoing flirtation Arthur has with the Cobbs to be exceedingly foolhardy. They're brilliant but are dreamers in the purest sense of the word – academics with minimal field experience, guileless and idealistic. In this business, people like the Cobbs are the most dangerous of all. 

So, ordinarily, Eames might chuckle and supply a sly quip or two of his own at Arthur’s expense. 

Instead, he thinks about how Arthur has been slogging away through the night to meet this bastard’s petty demands. He thinks about how fucking cold that floor must have been, and about the overpriced beers they will partake in once the job is over.

Instead, he leans into Chadwick’s space and softly, so softly, utters a few choice words. 

***

Chadwick stops hovering about Arthur’s desk. Arthur gives no outward indication of having noticed. He continues working as usual, head down and shoulders hunched. 

Aware that this is Arthur’s customary ruse, Eames bides his time. 

***

“You said something to him, didn’t you,” Arthur says, bone dry, all statement and no question. Eames has wandered over, ostensibly to collect several security tapes whereas in actuality he is flagging fast and in grave need of a minor diversion. 

Arthur swiftly clacks away at his laptop; he doesn’t bother looking up from the screen. 

“Nothing that was unwarranted,” Eames allows, after a pause, wrestling down that age-old urge to simply fib. “Besides, the last thing I need is for a disgruntled point man to sell us out because our illustrious extractor is being a tosser.”

Arthur meets his gaze then, direct and appraising and perhaps a touch pissed off. He just looks at Eames, for a long moment.

Eames waits, patiently, expectant.

“I didn't need you to do that,” he might say, sharp and severe. Or, “I could have handled it.”

Anticlimactically, he merely arches an eyebrow. “Thanks for the show of confidence.”

Eames shrugs, somewhat disappointed. He rather likes the charade of riling Arthur, rather likes that Arthur often tends to humour him with a scathing retort or irritated huff. It’s a well-used, well-oiled routine. Comfortable.

He consoles himself by deftly and successfully nicking one of Arthur’s many pens. Over the past few days, he has been gradually pocketing various odds and ends from the other team members: pencil stubs, a stapler, two pipettes, a pack of lozenges. He always returns the items; it’s a benign enough method of keeping his fingers nimble and his mind occupied. 

“You may have everyone else fooled with that loyal-to-a-fault act, Arthur, but I know better. Underneath all that impenetrable hair lies a devious and manipulative mind.”

That, at last, earns him a minute but genuine smile. 

***

“You’re sleeping in a bed tonight, even if I have to carry you to it.” 

“Hmm,” Arthur hums, eyelids fluttering open. “Is that an invitation, Mr Eames?” 

“Not tonight,” he laughs, pleasantly blind-sided and a little taken aback at the warm thrill of interest that licks up his spine. He’d walked right into that one.

Arthur beams up at him, smug at scoring a point, still sleepy.

“Come on. That wasn’t an empty threat, you know. I’ve always wanted to carry someone bridal-style.” 

“I’d like to see you try,” Arthur chuckles, dimples deepening, and Eames makes note of how different he can be – quick to laughter and impish when drowsy, tight-lipped and focused when at his desk, discreet and deadly when in a dream. “I'm a lot heavier than you’d expect.” 

Arthur holds out both his hands, a gesture that is both childlike and imperious. Biting back an instinctive jibe, Eames hauls him to his feet. The rough pads of his fingers are warm around Arthur's bony wrists. Inadvertently, or so he tells himself, he maintains the grasp a fraction longer than he should. 

Eames refrains from giving voice to something he may later regret. 

He has considered it, though. Imagined it, even. 

Arthur is studying him in the waning light, again with that strangely careful and restrained slant to his face. Perhaps he has considered it too. 

Maybe one day, when they are both a little older and less prone to paranoia, when Arthur is a little more selfish with his time and Eames is a little less…perhaps then, they could make a go of it. Whether ‘it’ turns out to be a casual one-time fuck or something more regular remains to be seen. 

It’s a nebulous spool of thought, indulgent and idiotic. He tucks it away impatiently, as he has done before, far too cynical to consider unravelling the individual threads to ascertain where they may lead. 

Nevertheless, for some reason, he’s hesitant to discard it entirely. 

Not tonight, at least. 

They walk out of the warehouse together, shoulders brushing.


End file.
